


Catalyst

by Solea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Worship, Boys Kissing, Drunk Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Experienced!John, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending, Happy Sex, Johnlock Fluff, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/pseuds/Solea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it takes a certain kind of catalyst to trigger a chain reaction. Whether that catalyst is a beautiful woman or skin-warmed scotch, who is to say? Though there is a third party present here, this story is really all about our favorite Baker Street Boys and how they might have discovered what we all already know exists ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amilyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/gifts), [BlueMorpho (OldToadWoman)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldToadWoman/gifts), [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Thanks to [Amilyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn) and [BlueMorpho](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMorpho/) for their help with this!! 
> 
> It was a little plot bunny that turned out to be the rabbit form Quest for the Holy Grail! Had to write it till it was done. After rereading it I feel like I was awkwardly channeling a bit of [AtlinMerrick's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/) exquisite style which would be surprising except for the fact that I'd just gotten finished reading basically everything she's written for the Sherlock Fandom just before writing this. 
> 
> Hopefully you all find it as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

There are many ways that Sherlock revels in a post-case high.  His reactions, according to the blistering assessment John will give anyone unwise enough to ask, exhibit degrees of insanity commensurate with the extremity of the latest case’s denouement.  

Past adrenaline-riddled antics have included waltzing (literally, and by himself) the entire length of Marylebone, loudly deducing the personal grooming predilections of every person in a crowded tube carriage, dragging John to the diciest shawarma joint that ever diced, ordering everything on the menu and then consuming _everything he ordered_ , and on one very memorable occasion pulling John into an alley and all but strip searching him for a pack of cigarettes he was, for unknown reasons, convinced John had stolen from the crime scene. (John hadn’t.)

Evidently, when the finale of a case amounts to one unexpected discovery based on the tensile strength of wool remnants left at the scene, plus five alleyways traversed at breakneck speed, plus three cars narrowly avoided, plus one jewel thief slammed up against a skip and detained till the calvary arrived--called by John this time, thankyousoverymuch-- the complicated equation yields the unexpected solution of Sherlock humoring John’s breathlessly articulated longing for a few pints.

Sherlock’s eyes flash everywhere as they enter John’s local. The pub is not an entirely unknown quantity to him, but this late on a Saturday night it’s more crowded than normal.   _Crowded with idiots. Except_ … His gaze sharpens just as John slots himself into a narrow space at the bar and immediately gets the barman’s attention.

“Henry, hey.  Pint of bitter and...Sherlock watcha want?” John glances over his shoulder when an answer is not immediately forthcoming. Sherlock’s attention is riveted not on the bar, as nature intended, but on some distant person/thing/point of obscurity probably of no interest to anyone but Sherlock. John sighs and turns back. “And a stout, I guess, ta.” He tosses notes onto the bar, suddenly positive that the type of beer won’t matter to Sherlock who probably hates it on principle.

Sure enough, Sherlock takes the proffered pint without so much as a glance at John and swiftly makes a beeline across the crowded pub towards the back corner.  

John’s momentary flare of hope that Sherlock’s spotted a lone free table is replaced by a flare of a totally different nature as he notices the lone occupant of the _oh so very taken_ table to which Sherlock’s feet have unerringly delivered him.

 _Tall, dark, and fucking goddamned, transcendently gorgeous._ John’s brain supplies as he approaches. _Alone, and_ _fuckall, is Sherlock trying to_ pull? John’s inner monologue squeaks as Sherlock plants his pint peremptorily on the table.

John groans as he approaches. “Sorry, he’s--”

“The knife concealed in your right boot is a great deal longer than is strictly legal.” Sherlock gestures impatiently at the offending combat boots crossed indolently at the ankles on the table’s other stool. Except they’re not combat boots, John reflects. They’re knee high and supple leather and as different from _military_ issue as this rare creature is from any other woman John’s ever seen.

The woman sweeps hooded eyes across Sherlock from feet to fringe and cocks a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“You dress to the right, if we're trading observations.”

 _Honey, that’s what she sounds like,_ John thinks.   _Or maybe velvet dipped in molten chocolate and..._

“Obviously to the right. _Very_ obviously.” 

“Nothing about _my_ appearance is, however, illegal.” The effect of Sherlock’s acid rejoinder is marred by his finicky button-the-coat dance. John ruthlessly suppresses a smile.

“It so definitely _should_ be,” Tall, dark and luscious purrs, smiling slightly. “Though, frankly, I rather prefer your friend here.” She sweeps her gaze from Sherlock’s face to John’s.  John knows after long association with Sherlock that he’s a spectator in this game and wisely does nothing but cock his own eyebrow and smile because _ha_!

Sherlock flashes his teeth. It’s a tight, intense grin, one with which John’s neither familiar nor wholly comfortable, and he takes a long pull of beer deciding to at least finish his pint before Sherlock irrevocably ruins the remainder of their night.

The woman smiles _sinuous, full, lush_ at John, totally shifting her attention away from Sherlock. This earns her lots of points, actually, simply because she’s able to _do_ that with Sherlock in such close proximity.

“Your friend’s kind of a dick,” she states, and glances at the table in tacit invitation. John smiles and crowds his glass down next to Sherlock’s.

_Spectator no more._

“If you only knew.” A long suffering sigh huffs out into the world as he sits on the other stool that she’s vacating and how _the damn hell_ does someone turn the simple act of retracting long, sleek legs and tucking ankles behind barstool rungs into a fucking sex act?

“Bet you’d _love_ to tell me,” she rests her chin on her hand and her hair cascades around her face like a waterfall of curls.

“Yes, John, by all means tell us a _story_ or better yet, bring up your blog and let her bore _herself_ to tears,” Sherlock growls, rolling his eyes and snatching his beer from the table, downing a gulp in pique.

“Honestly, though? If I had a voice like that, I’d probably want to hear myself talk too,” she comments to John and laughs. It’s a sound that makes everyone in the blast radius perk up and look around.

“Yeah, too bad he never says anything nice with it.”

“Nice is _boring_ ,” Sherlock takes another swig and grimaces. “Evidently, so is this.” He waves his hand between them. “Come on, John.” The coat swirls dramatically as he spins away.

“Watch,” John says, leaning his own elbow on the table,  smiling slightly as he watches his friend swan through the pub.  “He’ll make it almost all the way there before he realizes I haven’t followed...and, here it comes, the nose pinch, the glare annnnnd. Oh. Huh. Usually he just leaves.”

She chuckles again and John raises his eyebrows appreciatively, realizing he’d say damn near anything to hear the peal of that low, throaty laughter continue. “I’m John Watson, by the way.” He turns away from the approaching coat-clad tempest and offers his hand. She grips it firmly, shakes once. Her hand’s warm and hard with callouses, but not rough, the strength of her grip captivates him more than anything else has so far.

“Zahra,”

“Fucking _beautiful_.” John shakes his head slightly as he states this simple truth and regards her steadily until her lips ( _dear god, those lips_ ) curl up again.

“John, _seriously_ \--” Sherlock claps a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, shut up, sit down and pretend to be pleasant or get the hell out.”

“ _Why_? Obviously, this is an attempt to manipulate me through jealousy. Which, incidentally, won’t work.”

“Jesus, you’re a complete tosser,” Zahra snorts.

“And you’re shameful, using John to--”

“Sherlock, I swear to damn God--”

“Fine, John. _Fine_. I will sit here and finish this disgusting beverage in silence and even wait until you’re done with yours, if you promise that immediately after you take your last sip, we can _go_.”

John’s not watching Sherlock bitching. He’s watching the clouds amass in Zahra’s gorgeous eyes, observing the fine, strong jaw clench as her expression hardens. If marble were coffee colored, she could be carved from it. He vaguely wishes he had some popcorn so he could pop it into his mouth for effect as he watches imminent fireworks.

“You seem to think you’re pretty bright. How about you tell me why I wouldn’t prefer John Watson’s company to your stropy, pompous self?”

“Because we’re negotiating a sexual encounter and John’s not a visually striking man.”

“Oi!” John scowls blackly at Sherlock. “No part of that sentence is even a bit ok.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs out a little, peevish breath and flicks his gaze back over Zahra.

“Studies have shown that it takes far longer than _you’ve_ had to psychologically augment John’s physical features with the requisite emotional context to create the kind of desire you’re pretending to experience.

“Your physical responses to me on the other hand are textbook-perfect examples of arousal: Dilated pupils, heightened respiration, increased heart rate, etc. Of course you’d know the signs, given your obvious _familiarity_ with this situation.” Sherlock tilts his chin up so that he can glare down his nose at the both of them.

Judging from the smile tugging at Zahra’s lips, she doesn’t need John swooping in to defend her honour.

“And there’s the rub, eh?” Sloe eyes narrow and focus intently on John though she’s clearly still addressing Sherlock. “ _Experience_. I bet none of your studies took that into consideration. You’re gorgeous, and you’re obnoxiously aware of it, but there are all different kinds of gorgeous out there and John here is one of the best. And, I can tell he would be more fun than you by several orders of magnitude. You see, he not only HAS a dick, but looks as though he knows precisely what to do with it. And that’s just _right_ up my goddamned street.”

John can’t stop the bark of laughter at that. “Donno how you know that, but you’re nowhere near wrong,” he says, chuckling at Sherlock’s black scowl. Her hand’s resting in the middle of the table, another invitation, but John’s a master at this game. Pulling is his specialty. It’s _keeping_ he has issues with, thanks in no small part to the great glaring git sitting at his side. So he holds the troops in reserve.

“I can read you like a romance novel, John,” Zahra smirks. “Should we get out of here so I can see what’s beneath the cover?”

“Oh, god, yes. Better be your place though. This giant git’s my flatmate,” he grumbles.

Zahra rolls her eyes. “Just passing through, John. No dice.” Her lips turn down in regret and John feels the bottom drop out of his excitement. Fucking logistics. They’ll get you every time.

“Oh, no. Please, _please_ , let me not impede the progress of _true love_ ,” Sherlock snarls, pouring a river's worth of sarcasm into that short sentence.

“Well, since you _are_ begging, maybe John can be convinced to teach you a few things,” Zahra purrs, her expression turning sly. “He doesn’t seem like he’d refuse you much,” she murmurs, her lips twisting into a wicked, wicked grin that John matches with his own.

 _Anything_. He decides.  _Anything anything anything to get her to...even that. Which, be honest Watson, would not be totally outside the realm of pleasant maybe..._

“I could possibly be convinced, Sherlock, if you ask me nicely.” 

Sherlock stares at John a moment. He's not a man given to lengthy introspective debate. As much as he questions everything around him constantly, he rarely gives serious thought to the contents of his own head or heart. What he wants, he takes.

So he takes quick stock of his current wants. He wants John to pay attention to _him_ , and wants to know what the inside of a woman feels like, specifically this one, he wants to find out why _this_ woman finds John so appealing and he wants to figure out why he’s getting the beginnings of a very rare hard-on just from thinking about it. Actually, he decides, this could be _fascinating_.

“Agreed,” he says, abruptly smiling. “Assuming we’re all equally amenable, I see no reason not to avail myself of such tutelage as you and ‘three continents Watson’ here can provide,” he snarks, setting his pint on the table with enough finality as to set its contents sloshing slightly over the rim.

John is very, very fond of his flatmate. After a year of extremely close friendship, he’s even ready to admit he loves him in a strange, sort of indefinable way. And so he tries. He really, really tries to stifle the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. John’s invaded Afghanistan. He should  be able to conquer his own hilarity. But he totally, absolutely can not.  

“What?” Sherlock squawks, irate. Zahra arches an exquisitely formed eyebrow and stifles her own smile, thoughtfully ignoring the fact that John’s laughing hard enough to fall off his stool, giving him time to master himself.

“All right, mate, lesson number one,” he says after he gains some semblance of control. “The words “amenable, avail, tutelage...actually, all of the words that you just said, in any order, should never ever be uttered outside the confines of a classroom. With the exception of ‘three continents Watson’ which can be uttered wherever and whenever you please.”

“‘Three continents?’ What’s that about then?” Zahra asks and there’s the breach.

John makes a quick foray through the defenses, brushing fingers slowly over the back of her hand and up her arm to her elbow, keeping his smugness at the trail of gooseflesh left in their wake well hidden. On balance that isn’t really hard to do because she’s parted her lips just a bit and J _esus fucking Christ on a cross_ the things John suddenly wants to to do with that mouth.

“If Sherlock’s not put you off completely, why don’t you come back to our place and let me show you?” John morphs from solicitous to salacious in the span of one sentence. His eyes crinkle upwards at the corners suggesting a smile but he allows the rest of his face to reflect the mix of aroused, predatory eagerness roiling around the rest of him.

The term ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ has perhaps never been applied more appropriately to anyone in history than to John Watson. Mostly the wolf stays hidden, bound in layers of wool jumper and jacket. It’s a survival tactic, camouflage that helps him blend into this new life without war, without the constant ferocious fight for survival, and it makes pulling the type he usually goes for-- the safe, the pretty, the type he _wants_ to want-- easier.

But for this woman, with her boots and her knife, and her sleeveless vest and her wicked mouth, the wolf makes a sudden, stunning appearance, all snapping eyes and rippling jaw and flexing shoulders. It works, of course it works, and not only on Zahra, if Sherlock’s quickly suppressed expression of shock is anything thing to go by.

“Right. Off we pop.” Zahra shows a bit of her own wolf, unwinding her legs from their complex knot and rising from the stool with a grace and speed that gives Sherlock a run for his money, a fact that he’s not entirely immune to. “No,” she adds, as John pulls out his wallet. “I’m paid up, thanks. It’s swill anyway. I prefer scotch.”

Sherlock really does perk up.

“I have an excellent selection. You’ll be pleased,” he declares, sweeping out ahead of them, hauteur rediscovered.

Zahra follows, swinging her jacket up as she moves, leaving John one thousand percent content to take up the rear, stalking through the wake of her laughter, the hypnotic roll of her hips, and sea of envious stares as they pass.

On the street, Sherlock drops back and John catches up and they bracket the woman between them as she pulls on her bomber jacket which really is, to John’s surprise, military issue.

Zahra’s tall, only slightly shorter than Sherlock when they walk next to each other. John slides an arm confidently around her waist and she leans pliantly into his body, throwing an arm around his shoulders, her hand draping across his chest. Sherlock eyes them sidelong and slowly slides fingers around the nape of her neck. John feels her shiver against him as they walk as she slides her arm slowly around Sherlock’s waist.

The three intervening blocks have never filled so much _space_. They traverse them silently, allowing minute movements-- the brush of a hip here, the stroke of a thumb there, the parting of lips and the tightening of fingers to fill a space too intimate for words.

Halfway home, Sherlock drops his hand from Zahra’s neck to grip her waist. He brushes his fingers over John’s arm and squeezes his elbow briefly on the way and a giddy warmth blossoms in John’s chest, dispelling the ache of uncertainty that he hadn’t even realized had coiled there.

By the time the door of 221B looms before of them, they’re all breathing heavier than should be expected from a casual three block stroll. Zahra leans back against the door with a sigh as Sherlock turns away, searching his pockets for his keys.

John crowds against her, pressing a thigh between hers and brushing the thick fall of her fragrant hair aside as she loops an arm around his waist, snugging him closer and drops her head to press her lips against his. John’s growl as she opens to his mouth is deep and dark and seems to bypass Sherlocks ears and goes straight to his cock and he curses softly as he fumbles at the lock before finally getting the door open.

They make it all of three steps into foyer before John spins Zahra around, and she leans willingly against the wall arching slightly between his bracketing arms and moans low as he applies his lips and teeth to her throat.

“Jesus,” Sherlock hisses, and she reaches for him, yanking him in close until he’s pressed against them both. John leans back just enough to watch as Sherlock descends on her mouth, imaging for a moment what his lips must feel like, unable to suppress a moan when their lips softly connect.

Zahra snakes a hand around his head and draws him down, down, deepening their kiss and the resulting bass hum, the _goddamn sound_ Sherlock makes, shakes John’s knees weak and he leans back against Zahra, sliding his hands slowly up and down her lean stomach.

Sherlock’s buried his fingers in her hair and now he tugs gently and she tilts her head back, allowing him better access to her mouth and exposing the long, lovely column of her throat to John, who needs no second invitation to resume his explorations there. He slides his hands further and further up her body with every lick and kiss until he’s palming her breasts through the thin material of her vest and bra.

She groans luxuriously into Sherlock’s mouth as John swirls thumbs over the faint rise of nipple and this seems to drive Sherlock just a bit insane because all of a sudden he’s licking into her mouth with long, deep swipes, his long hands are wrapping around her waist, and he’s thrusting his slender hips shallowly against John’s thigh where it covers hers, pinning her lightly against the wall.

Sherlock tightens what must already be a bruising grip on her waist and shifts his attention from her mouth to her jaw and she cries out a soft ‘yes’ and arches under them as he begins to mirror John’s movements precisely, nipping and licking in sync down her neck to her shoulders.

He struggles to process the rush of sensations: the rich, salty taste of Zahra’s skin, the warmth and strength of her hand on his neck guiding him, the sound John’s dark, muted groans, and the feel of John's exhalations puffing across the centimeters of smooth skin that separate their mouths vie for attention. He can’t suppress a ragged moan as John peels away the collar of her jacket exposing her shoulders.

Truly unable to think straight for the first time in memory, Sherlock follows John’s lead, kissing and licking down the soft ridges of Zahra’s clavicles towards the delicate hollow at the base of her throat. It thrills him to feel her tremble against him, to feel John’s thigh flexing over hers as Sherlock ruts lightly against it, his aching need overwhelming the inhibitions that have become so deeply ingrained since that first awkward night when he had claimed indifference because he feared rejection.  

That same irrational fear now speeds his heart and tightens his lungs as, with each kiss, he and John draw ever closer to each other. He’s dizzy with it because you don’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective to realize that the fallout of a misunderstanding now could break… _it_...this precious thing that’s grown so vital to him. He _needs_ John now, can’t imagine his absence, and the stakes are high enough to make him pull away despite every cell in his body wanting to move closer.

And then it doesn’t matter. Because they were so very, very close, John heard rather than saw the sudden, painful intake of breath, felt Sherlock stiffening in so very much the _wrong_ way and had only to change the angle of his head by the barest few degrees in order to quickly bring their lips together. Sherlock freezes, and his body stiffens, but there is no way, _no goddamn way_ John’s retreating now.  

He swiftly slides his hand from where it rests over Zahra’s breast, catches Sherlock by the back of the neck and holding him firmly, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s, nudging and gently nuzzling until he finally, _finally_ , he feels the shaking man give way.  

Sherlock does nothing by half measures, and this is no exception.  As he opens his lips he all but throws himself into John’s arms in a surfeit of giddy relief. John rocks back into him, unprepared for the intensity of the emotions freighted on those lips, on the small, needy moans and shaking, grasping fingers. He groans into Sherlock’s mouth and tightens his arms, crushing them together.

Sherlock bends to him, pliant and eager, and John can’t believe, almost can’t _fathom_ the perfection of it. Never in the night did his imagination supply him with the softness of Sherlock’s lips, the warm-sharp taste of him as he licks hungrily into John's mouth, the incongruous strength of his whip thin body, or the rumble of baritone moans vibrating into him where their chests press together through far too many clothes. Eventually, they surface for air and stare, wide-eyed and panting.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Zahra breathes next to them, her eyes glowing. “You--that. Was beautiful. I didn’t know-- I can leave-- if you’d rather--”

“No!” Sherlock and John answer in unison because, even through the tectonic shift that has just forcibly realigned their senses, they are still fundamentally the same men. Sherlock is still ferociously curious and John’s...well John can’t quite believe that the two most beautiful creatures in creation are about to grace his bed and, understanding that sharing is not Sherlock’s strong suit, realizes this might be his only chance.

So they turn eagerly back to her and this time it’s Sherlock who pulls her away from the wall and swings her into his arms, dipping her low and kissing her slowly, his tongue sliding languorously against hers. She can feel his heart hammering against her breast, and her grin when he pulls away reflects the joy in his eyes as John none-too-subtly herds them up the stairs. She giddily reflects on the stunning difference a single kiss can make, deciding that the auspices for the remainder of the evening are very, very good.

John heaves a sigh of relief as he enters the foyer. The case had kept them largely out of the flat for the past few days and he’d tidied up right before, so things are...presentable. No obvious body parts, no reeking chemicals. Objectively, 221B Baker Street was in the condition John prefers it: neatly, comfortably cluttered. Behind him, Zahra huffs appreciatively before making a startled sound of excitement and making her way swiftly to the mantle. She peers closely at the the bat and beatle display, shucking off her coat and tossing it onto John’s chair.

“It’s a big brown bat, yeah?” she asks. “And these must be the bugs that comprise its diet. That’s really well done.  My dad was a taxidermist.”

John watches as Sherlock blinks slowly and has a dire premonition that the display cases full of birds and moths under Sherlock’s bed are about to make highly inappropriate appearances.

“You said you liked scotch, Zahra?” he asks, and Sherlock’s attention is beautifully diverted.

“Oh yeah, sure do, and which one of you is a doctor?” she asks, her eyes on the framed illuminated presentation of the hippocratic oath that Harry had given him at some point.

“That’d be me.”

“He’s an _Army_ doctor,” Sherlock stresses, breezing over to the cabinet that holds their precious stock of ridiculously priced scotch that Sherlock hordes as though it were actual gold.

“Ah, well, Lieutenant--”

“Captain,” Sherlock snaps as he pours liberal quantities of gold liquid into low balls John didn’t even know they owned.

“Sherlock!” John groans, rolling his eyes at Zahra before snatching matches off the mantle next to the bats. He’d laid the fire that morning, in hopes they’d be around to enjoy it tonight and damned if he wasn’t going to cash in on his forethought. He places the matches strategically and by the time he straightens up, Zahra’s turned her full attention to him.

“Mmmm, my apologies, _Captain_ Watson.” She stands close, sliding her arms around John’s shoulders and kisses him slowly.  

“Absolutely no offense taken,” he murmurs as she pulls her lips away.

“As a medical doctor you doubtless know quite a bit about human anatomy,” she purrs, accepting the scotch Sherlock hands her without releasing him and she leans over his shoulder to sniff at the glass appreciatively before sipping.

“Passing familiar, yeah.” John smiles, hefting his own glass and willing his hands to stop shaking. He can’t remember the last time he was this turned on. It feels like all the blood in his body is pooling between his legs, and Zahra isn’t helping, swaying against him like that.

“So, Captain Doctor, how many places on the human body d’you reckon can hold a shot of whisky?” her husky voice breathed into his ear makes it temporarily impossible think let alone come up with a decent answer.

“Male or female?” Sherlock asks, pressing suddenly up behind her, reaching a hand around her to stroke her neck while watching John’s reactions over her shoulder.

Zahra leans back against him, rubbing her shoulders back and forth against the silk of his shirt.

“Female,” she challenges.

“Six. No, seven. Depending on how flexible you are,” Sherlock says smiling.

“Really?” She tilts her head back to look at him incredulous. His eyes flutter shut as he leans over her and kisses her softly, using his lips and tongue to tease her mouth open the way John had shown him. As she rocks her hips into John, Sherlock opens his eyes and watches as John rolls his hips against her, matching her movements, learning, always learning. John notices and smiles.

“I’ll prove it, Zahra, if you’d be so kind as to remove your clothing,” he says, teasing the hem of her vest with his own fingers.

Instead, she stretches her arms up and back behind Sherlock's head, arching back against his body and carefully turning her glass in her hand to avoid spilling. 

The result, the long planes of her body lengthened and stretched against Sherlock's frame, is one of the most erotic things John has ever seen.

“I think,” she murmurs, throwing her head back to rest against Sherlock's shoulder, “I think I’d rather have John do the honors.”

John produces something between a laugh and a groan.

“You’re going to kill me, you delicious, gorgeous woman. You’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack,” he laughs, reaching over and placing his glass on table beside his chair.

“Have the decency to wait until after,” Sherlock mutters, taking a long sip of his scotch before monkey arming it over to the mantle. Zahra’s breasts are slight, but full enough to shake as she laughs, and he finds his hands gravitating to them. He slides his fingers lightly over their swell, gently tracing the lines of her before cupping her in his palms and tilting his face to kiss suck her moan into his mouth.

John drops to his knees, leaning back on his heels, and starts prying at the laces of her left boot.

“Careful,” she manages before Sherlock captures her lips again. He's intrigued by the way they vibrate differently depending on the quality and timbre of her moans.

John dips fingers between her boot and her calf and feels the hilt of a knife. He slowly wraps his fingers around it and looks upwards for permission, but Sherlock’s tipped her head up and is stroking her throat with the hand not busy stroking her breast under her shirt. Their eyes are closed, and they’re not kissing but their lips are touching lightly, brushing lightly back and forth. As John watches, Sherlock licks into her mouth and she moans and he stills to listen intently, to feel her against him.

John’s brain seizes for a full ten seconds at that sight as every drop of nonessential blood pools south of his navel.  But, goddamn it, he has a task and he will perform it. He draws the knife out, raising his eyebrows as it keeps right on coming long after he expected the blade to taper off. It’s seven inches of straight, darkened steel, double edged. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he looks down but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing and Zahra moans again.

John lays the blade carefully on his chair-side table and tugs at her boot laces again. It takes longer than he thought it would and by the time he’s tossed the second one aside, she’s thrusting her ass back against Sherlock and moaning with every breath and both of his hands are sliding between her belly and her breasts rucking up her vest.

John kneels upright, and strokes his fingers up the front of her thighs before leaning back enough to tug his own jumper off and setting to work at his buttons.

Sherlock and Zahra watch hawkishly as he rids himself of his button down and he notices Sherlock’s eyes lingering on the scar at his shoulder. Zahra seems not to notice it as her glazed, lazy gaze sweeps over him before Sherlock cups her jaw, tilting her head gently back against this shoulder before working down her neck again with lips and teeth.

John leans forward and brushes his fingertips under the waistband of her leggings, fiddling with her annoyingly complex belt buckle until it falls away. He catches Sherlock’s sleeve and tugs, hoping Sherlock will take the hint and he won’t have to explain the power dynamics of clothed vs. naked which might break the mood...or might not. Still, he’s relieved when Sherlock reaches a hand between his chest and Zahra’s shoulders and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

John slides her leggings down revealing black bikini briefs and beautifully sleek, well muscled legs. She shifts against Sherlock lifting one foot and then the other and John tosses them in the same general direction as her boots.

Again, he runs his hands up her thighs, circling around to cup her ass and she bucks backwards, pinning his hands briefly between her firm flesh and Sherlock’s hips. John crowds closer, arresting her thrusting hips, and nuzzles and kisses her stomach and the rise of her mons while sliding palms over Sherlock’s hips behind her and Sherlock moans into her neck as John’s fingers brush against his erection.

John lays a row of kisses above the waistband of her knickers and slides his hand over Sherlock’s cock again. Sherlock hisses and sways, bucking his hips forward despite himself. Zahra hums deep in her throat and arches against Sherlock, and drops a hand down, stroking fingers through John’s hair before sliding her vest over her head baring a simple black cotton bra and a flowing expanse of soft, smooth skin over subtly defined muscle.

“You. You are just _glorious_ ,” John mutters, his eyes so full of the view in front of them that he totally misses Sherlock’s fleeting expressions of dismay and rage as his eyes sweep over her back.

John  accepts her hand and gets to his feet, toeing off his own shoes and sending them skittering across the floor, and quickly and efficiently divesting himself of his trousers offering a silent prayer of thanks that he’d chosen tight black briefs this morning instead of the...alternatives.  

Zahra rubs her hands in soothing strokes across his chest, through the fine, soft hair that curls around his pecs and drifts gentle fingertips over his scar, not ignoring it but not paying all that much attention either before stroking her hands against his back.

“I think we have a bet to decide,” she says and Sherlock snorts from behind her, tossing his shirt on the growing pile of clothing by the side of his chair. She turns to him and her hand finds John’s.

“Oh,” John breathes.

“Yeah,” Zahra says, giving his fingers a squeeze.

In the year and some change that they’ve lived together John’s seen bits of Sherlock’s bare chest three times.

The first time was a post-case bandaging bonanza that Sherlock had hardly let him finish before bounding off to the next case.

The second time was wrapping up acid burns caused by a combination of particularly idiotic experimentation and extreme boredom.

The third, most recent, and by far nastiest time Sherlock had rucked his blood soaked shirt up to his armpits to allow John to carefully suture shut a deep three inch long gash over his ribs ripped open by the sharp edge of a fence as they ran through back alleys. In short, none of these instances prepared him for the sight of Sherlock outside the context of injury and healing.

Frankly, John Watson is finding it hard to catch his breath, and Sherlock, well, he’s not helping.  The way the firelight dances over his skin, limning in flickering light the long, strong lines of his torso? Not helping. The fact that along with his shirt, he had shed his belt and now his trousers hang low-slung over the swell of his hips? _So_ not helping. The indolent expression on his face as he leans against the mantle, drink in hand? Positively _bite_ worthy.

“Well, fuck me,” John murmurs, eloquence lost along with, apparently his ability to control his limbic system.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at Zahra. “He writes our blog, did you know that? People read it. It’s said he’s quite articulate.”

Zahra giggles and John manages to pull his insane shit together.

“Tosser,” he mutters, following her across the room. It’s only as she turns to Sherlock that the firelight reflects off her back and John sees the tattoo between her shoulder blades. No, he realizes, a scar. It’s _writing_ , but not anything he can understand-- he doesn’t read Arabic. He opens his mouth to ask the question and catches Sherlock’s wide eyed warning glance, the minute shake of his head as he pulls Zahra against his body, sliding splay-fingered hands over the small of her back in an oddly protective gesture. John nods and holds his peace.  

“I might want to try your theory out on you yourself,” Zahra purrs, her fingers stroking along long columns of muscle rippling over Sherlock’s back. “You are, well, what he said.”

Sherlock chuckles and nips the cleft twixt neck and shoulder, handing her her glass before resting his chin on her shoulder, gazing steadily at John past the curling mane of her hair. “So how many places on a man’s body are there that can hold a shot?” Zahra asks, continuing to stroke his back with one hand while sipping her drink with the other.

“Same as a woman’s,” is Sherlock’s rather smug answer.

“Then why’d you ask before?” 

“Because I wanted to discover your preference. Frankly, I’m thrilled. I can’t imagine a more beautiful vessel from which to take...refreshment.”

Zahra hums deep in her throat and John shoots him his I’m-impressed-you’re-not-being-a-dick smile, before pressing up against Zahra’s back, smoothing his hands over her shoulders and working at the clasp of her bra. It gives way with a satisfying snap and Sherlock leans back, hooking a finger through the strap and flinging the garment away.

“Shall we begin?” he asks, his eyes lingering on her as he reaches for the bottle of amber liquid on the mantlepiece. John slides his hands around her, cupping her breasts firmly and gently plucking at her nipples. She shudders and moans, pressing back against him.

“First shot’s mine,” Sherlock rumbles, measuring what John would bet his life is precisely thirty five mL into an empty tumbler. John swipes her nipples once more and Sherlock reaches forward and tips her head back so it rests on John’s shoulder and she’d be staring at the ceiling except her eyes are closed. “I’ll take it straight from your lovely, wicked mouth,” he murmurs, and her lips part under his fingers as he leans into her body, pressing her into John. He carefully tips the smoky liquid into her mouth with one hand, the fingers of his other hand resting lightly on her throat, feeling her muscles work against the urge to reflexively swallow.

He catches John’s eye over her body and he grins, delighted and open, before he wraps his fingers around her neck, and his presses full lips over hers, sinking slowly to his knees, pulling her with him until she bends over his upturned face and opens to him, kissing the scotch into his mouth, her fingers fluttering over his throat as he swallows. She clasps his face, deepening their kiss, growling and licking hungrily over his lips and neck as she slides down to her knees in front of him.

John gazes down at them, watching them grope and kiss.  Sherlock shoves a thigh forward, and she eagerly straddles it, rocking her hips against him and moaning, gripping fingers into his shoulder till they dent his skin.

With every evidence of effort, Zahra pulls away from Sherlock’s chest, leaving a rosy mark above his heart and sighs. She looks back over her shoulder at John and smiles.

“Your turn, John, get down here. Where now, Sherlock?”

John pulls the afghans from his chair tossing them on the floor before getting to his knees. It’s unlikely they’ll be making it to the bedroom, but there’s no need to be uncomfortable. He spreads it out under them before settling back against his chair, tugging Zahra’s warm body against him.  She slides back slotting nicely between his thighs. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pressing her back against his chest and she nestles into him, arching the small of her back against his aching erection. He shuts his eyes and sighs as Sherlock pours another precise amount of liquor into the tumbler before sinking to his knees between Zahra’s and John’s legs. 

“Clasp your hands around your knees and flex backwards,” Sherlock murmurs and two deep hollows appear above her clavicles as she complies. She chuckles as Sherlock pours half a shot into one, and half the shot into the other. He and John lean forward and suck the skin-warmed liquid from her, lapping and laving the last remnants from her body and stroking her skin until they’re all panting.

“Does that count as one or two?” Zahra asks breathlessly.

“Two, of course,” Sherlock says, crowding against her and  stroking fingers up the outside of John’s thighs, tracing the muscles there, delighting at the smile that spreads across John’s lips as he drops his head back against the chair and shudders. 

“Might be cheating,” Zahra murmurs against Sherlock’s shoulder, sliding a hand down his stomach and fiddling idly with the buttons of his trousers.

“I could have fit a full shot in each of those beautiful hollows, and you know it,” Sherlock smiles, stroking down the inside of John’s thighs and reveling in his immediate response. “But if we drink that much, we’ll hardly be of any use to you...” he chokes off as Zahra dips her hand beneath his open waistband and runs her palm over his erection, her eyes widening as she realizes he’s not wearing pants.

“Zahra, you genius,” John breaths. “You made him shut up. No one’s ever been able to do that so quickl--” Sherlock recovers himself and slides the palms of both hands behind Zahra’s back, tracing the proud outline of John's erection and rubbing against it.

“Sherlock, where? Where next?” Zahra leans forward to bite at Sherlock’s neck, grunting in satisfaction as he bucks against her hand and groans as his slicked glans slides firmly across her palm.

“Uhm,” Sherlock says, rolling his hips again. “Your. Um. Suprasternal notch.” Sherlock moans again as she strokes him.

“My what now?”

John reaches around her shoulders and dips fingers into the depression between clavicles muttering “Here.”

“Ah, good,” she breathes, and John groans when Sherlock palms his cock again, greedily grasping it at the root through his pants even as he bucks into Zahra’s busy hands, and they’re caught in the loveliest of feedback loops until Zahra pushes Sherlock gently away from her, gesturing at the bottle.

Sherlock administers the shot in the appropriate place and consumes it quickly, catching the lone drop that drips between her breasts before licking over to a nipple and sucking it lightly into his mouth.

It’s an experiment the results of which he's drastically underestimated.

Zahra arches violently up, pushing her shoulders back against John who reaches down at that exact moment and rubs quick circles over her clit through her knickers. Her hoarse moans gain volume and frequency as Sherlock mimics the actions of his teeth and tongue on one nipple with his fingers on the other, sliding his other hand down between her legs to feel and follow John’s movements.

“Oh my fucking god, don’t you _dare_ stop,” she shouts and Sherlock abandons his plan to retreat and observe, instead nuzzling closer and tugging at her knickers, getting in John’s way for one awkward moment which is well worth it when the pads of John’s fingers make contact with her hot, slicked skin. She keens, digging her nails into Johns thighs, splayed on either side of hers and he wraps an arm back around her shoulders, holding her against him as he nibbles and nuzzles the skin below her ear, smoothing her hair aside with his cheek.

Sherlock stifles a grin at the colorful, imaginative flow of invective that spills in hissed tones from her lips and he flips his palm upwards below John’s stroking fingers and gently, oh so slowly slides two fingers into her.

Although he doesn’t know it now, the future holds years of love and sexual discovery for Sherlock, more than enough to make up for the first thirty odd years of his life. He’ll end up making an entire wing of his mind palace available to store and catalogue first times, best times, actually _all_ the goddamn times.

But always, held in a gilt box in a place of honor on the altar of his chapel there will always be the memory of the first time he felt the slick-soft heat of another body closing around his fingers.

He closes his eyes to better record the spill of warmth in the cup of his palm, the reflexive tightening of the succulent nub of nipple captured between his lips, the way everything about Zahra stills and tenses, and breathless, urgent quality to John’s quiet command as he sinks long, strong digits into her.

“ _Move_.”

Sherlock moves. He crooks his fingers, following the inner contours of her body and, agonizingly slowly, pulls almost completely out before she cries out, bucking up against his hand. John picks up his tempo and increasing the pressure of his fingers over her clit and Sherlock responds in kind, pumping rhythmically into her and, extrapolating that an increase in sensations would be appropriate on other areas of her anatomy, bites down gently on the nipple still sucked into this mouth while tweaking and rolling the other firmly between his fingers. He raises his eyes, and manages to meet John’s glinting gaze just before he bares his teeth and bites down on the tender flesh at the base of Zahra’s throat.

She arches, then, every muscle taut, and screams something unintelligible and Sherlock moans against her breast as he feels her clench amazingly hard around his fingers as they thrust, bite, lave, and lick her through her prolonged, shuddering orgasm.

John gasps, hips thrusting as she relaxes back against him, boneless in their mutual embrace. With a supreme effort he stops, moaning as he slips hand over his own cock, stroking his palm over the swollen, sensitized glans through his pants.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Zahra murmurs, “John can be the vessel for a while while I get my breath back,”

Sherlock licks at her jaw, then nuzzles over her shoulder and brushes his tongue and lips against John’s, imagining what it would feel like to have those lips and teeth latched onto _his_ neck.

“I believe that’s an excellent idea,” noticing the slight slur in his voice and wondering whether it's his imagination and deciding that no, he’s drunk, and that’s just _fantastic_. Zahra gets gracefully to her feet, hopping on John’s chair and tucking her legs beneath her, gazing at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock crawls forward between John’s legs, the afghan body-warm and comforting beneath his hands. Raking John's body with his eyes, he can't believe how different the man looks than he imagined... but John had honed the art of adapting his appearance every bit as much as Sherlock had--just used it to a different effect.  Tentatively, Sherlock dips low, sliding his cheek along the inside of John’s thigh, nuzzling closer as he discovers that the fine hairs beneath his cheek don’t tickle as he expected, but rather pleasantly abrade, and he nuzzles there for several moments, testing the texture over his nose, his forehead and finally his lips as he nibbles and sucks a line of tender flesh, working his way slowly and methodically towards John's crotch.

John sighs and moans low, tucking fingers below his waistband and taking himself in hand, stroking lightly. Sherlock nuzzles closer, breathing deeply the salt-bitter-sweet-soap skin scent and slipping tentative fingertips under the bottom edges of the fabric, drifting lightly over the tender, ticklish junction of John’s legs and hips.

“Bare him, Sherlock. Take them off,” Zahra murmurs from the chair and John nods, sighing--Sherlock starts a new catalogue of John's sighs in this particular context--, and lets his head fall backwards, pillowed on Zahra's thigh. Sherlock kneels upright, smoothing hands down John’s chest and stomach before hooking his fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulling. John cants his hips upwards and strokes himself again, groaning lush as Sherlock slowly drags the fabric over his cock and down his thighs before flinging it away.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip, staring down, ghosting long fingers over the ridges of John’s hips, unwilling to interrupt John's soft, rhythmic stroking but finding it increasingly hard to abstain. He licks his lips and swallows convulsively sinking back on his heels and staring into John’s eyes which are dark, so much darker than usual. John bites his own lip, moaning as he slicks his palm over the curve of his glans before resuming his light strokes.

“Where?” he manages, and it takes Sherlock a moment to understand what John’s talking about.

“Oh. Hands... Hand. Don't. Don't stop.” Sherlock murmurs, reaching for the bottle, his eyes never leaving John’s. He wants to stop the shots and ignore the world and stare and stare and stare and stare but that wouldn’t be...right.

And ultimately, he wants to do more than stare. So far this shot game has provided graceful segues between levels of intimacy, ( _clever Zahra_ ) and his heart beats faster when he thinks of the final spot he has in mind. He’s fairly sure he’s the only one in this room who can manage it and… John’s moan brings him rushing back to the present and he picks up the bottle.

“Sherlock...don’t you think you’re being a bit rude?” Zahra purrs from her perch as she cards her fingers through John’s hair. Sherlock blinks at her, trying to figure out what he could have possibly done...or not done? Or... “Your trousers, Sherlock. It’s hardly fair to be clothed when we’re not, and _god damn_ I want to see what you look like, and I’ll bet you every penny in my bank account John wants to too.”

Relieved that his oversight is so easily remedied and piqued that there had been an oversight at all, Sherlock stands quickly and with absolutely no hesitation drops his trousers and kicks them away behind him and slides a palm over his cock, huffing a breath out as he strokes himself as gently and slowly as John had been doing. He wonders if he’s flushing...he _feels_ as though he’s flushing, feels their eyes on him and he looks at the inside of his arm to check and looks up and stills as he meets John’s eyes.

And feels his heart jackknife in his chest. 

The wolf is back in all his glory and a year’s worth of enforced deprivation is written in every line of John's body.  He's risen to his knees, gathered and tense, one hand clenched at his side and the other still stroking firmly along the length of his cock. Zahra strokes gently down his corded neck and it's only after he inhales raggedly that Sherlock realizes he had stopped breathing altogether. Sherlock smiles, astounded that the simple act of disrobing could have such a profound, perfect effect, making a mental note to test the limitations of that effect the next time John needs to be diverted.

John shakes his head once, sharply, blinks slowly, and seems to force himself to relax before holding a hand out, a cross between a request and an order.

Sherlock drops to his knees, straddling John's hips, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him in waves. He blinks rapidly, fighting for control of his senses and coordination as he cups John’s proffered hand in his and splashes scotch into the bowl of their palms.

He leans against him, gasping at the burning heat of John’s skin pressed against his where their chests meet and they reach for Zahra who takes their cupped hands in hers and bows her head, lapping at the liquid fire until it’s gone before releasing them.

“Five down,” John growls, snaking an arm around Sherlock’s hips and splaying fingers wide over his back just above the rise of his ass, pulling him down until he's seated on John's thighs.

“Two to go..and I think...god. John,” Sherlock hisses and shudders as John pulls him close, pressing them together and trapping their cocks between them.

John buries scotch-damp fingers in Sherlock’s wild hair and pulls him down, biting and sucking at his lips before licking greedily into the cleft between them. Sherlock leans against him, pressing him back against the chair, stroking fingers through his hair before clasping his head between his hands, long, strong fingers holding John still, pulling him closer and humming happily.

That deep, contented hum graduates into a dark, needy moan as John bucks lightly against his hips and that sound, _right there_ , John decides. Yes, sir, more of that please right now.

John reaches a hand between them and presses their cocks together in his fist. They’re well matched there, for all their other differences, and John strokes his palm over their glans, lubricating it before stroking firmly from tip to root. Sherlock’s response is every bit as dramatic as the rest of him. He throws his head back, he shudders, he keens, and then he flops forward, thrusting into John’s fist, burying his face against John’s neck. 

“God, Sherlock, you’re...Christ you’re amazing, you’re beautiful...” John groans as he strokes them. “So fucking perfect. You’re perfect.”

“John, _John_. John, you know you’re saying that out loud,” Sherlock’s deep voice shakes even as he grins against John’s neck and rocks his body hard against him, crowding closer to him, suddenly aching for more. More contact, more heat more of John's hands and far more than that, so very much more.

“John, if we don’t, mmmm. Do this scotch thing, we’re going to lose our bet.” he manages to mutter roughly between the thrusting and the biting and the kissing. John’s shoulder, he has discovered, tastes different than his thigh. Saltier and _hmmm_.

“You’re briney. Like the _ocean_ ,” Sherlock states definitively and dissolves into giggles.

They both stop moving immediately and John leans back, regarding him with wide eyes.

“I don’t think...I’ve ever heard you make that particular little..laugh before.” He can barely get it out, his lips are twitching so hard with the effort of repressing his laughter.

“If I ever hear about this from anyone outside this room, they won’t find your body, John. Not even Mycroft will be able to find your body.” If Sherlock’s solemn oath is marred by Zahra’s own giggle fit, no one seems to mind. Sherlock smiles down at John, suddenly shy.

“You are absolutely mad, both of you. Beautiful, mad, ridiculous men who need to win your bet. And then need to make love to me. Because that. What you just did? That would arouse the _dead_.”

“How very visual. Zahra, since you’re so adamant, and so very _ready_ , why not grace our afghan with your beautiful body and I’ll show you spot number six,” Sherlock says and winks.

“Sherlock are you drunk?” John asks, moving aside so Zahra can climb out of the chair.

“Absolutely.”

“This needs to happen more often. You’re hilarious.” John chuckles, settling Zahra down between them. Sherlock slips an arm around her shoulders and leans her back, cradling her against his chest.

“ _I’m_ hilarious? I’m _hilarious_?  From your rather visceral display of lust just now, hilarious is not the descriptor I expected.”

“Well hilarious and sexy. Very, very sexy.” John smiles, hefting the whisky bottle and casting a hungry eye over them. Zahra grins up at Sherlock as he strokes his fingers across her breasts and down to her belly, swirling circles around her navel.

“Mmmm. Sexy may not cut it, Sherlock,” she murmurs as he drifts his fingers further down. She spreads her legs and rocks her hips, hungry for contact. “Maybe, gorgeous or mmmmm talented or, God, yes, there right there fucking _yes_ ,” Sherlock’s smile hovers somewhere between smug and curious as he works his fingers over her, dipping into her to slick them before swirling softly over her clit.

John kneels beside her, stroking her hair with his free hand and lowers his mouth to her breasts, sucking one nipple and then the other, rubbing down her stomach and thighs. Sherlock tightens his arm around her shoulders holding her steady, and she allows her head to fall back as she moans their names and other things neither of them can understand.

She’s set a rhythm with the thrusting of her hips, and Sherlock matches it, varying the pressure of his fingers accordingly, repeating gestures that make her muscles tense just _there_ and avoiding movements the cause her to tense her thigh just _here_.

He looks up to see John watching him studying Zahra, and is thrilled that he’s somehow managed to fit fond and feral into one expression. John mouths the word _amazing_ and Sherlock leans forward over Zahra to lay a lingering kiss on his lips.

Zahra’s moaning with every breath now and her body is trembling violently between them, her muscles rippling under soft, warm skin as Sherlock strokes her. He thrusts his hips against her, sliding his achingly hard cock across her back and realizes with surprise that the actual act of taking her apart this way, of being able to reduce her power to needy compliance through pleasure is in itself intoxicatingly arousing.

He wonders idly if he could actually have a vicarious orgasm and a large part of him wants to try, but he’s too curious about other things so he puts a pin in that thought and saves it for later.

Zahra’s moans have become hoarse cries, and Sherlock stills his hand with a final stroke swallowing her frustrated protest with his mouth, kissing her deeply. John arrests her seeking hands and shakes his head smiling.

“Good things come to those who wait, love,” he murmurs, and she sighs and rolls her eyes. Sherlock lowers her to the floor and presses her legs down flat, smoothing his hands over stomach and breasts and picks up the bottle.

“Stretch out, Zahra, as much as you can,” he says, and she raises arms above her head and follows his instructions. Her concave stomach forms a shallow cup as her muscles stretch and flex and Sherlock splashes a volume of scotch that somewhat resembles a shot into the hollow of her navel. By unspoken agreement, he and John dip low and lap and suck the shot off her stomach together.

John continues to lick and suck his way down her abdomen, sliding hands down the sides of her body and her thighs.

“God, yes oh please that’s god-so-good…” She arches her back impossibly high as John’s tongue slips over her folds and he start lapping at her hungrily, his hand sliding between his own legs to pump his cock lightly.

“Sherlock,” Zahra murmurs, and he tears his eyes away from John to meet her gaze. She reaches for him, and he allows her to pull him closer, lets her place him how she wants him, straddling her chest, his knees bracketing her body. She braces herself up on an elbow and closes her fingers around Sherlock’s cock, stroking lightly and staring up his body.

John moans against her and shifts his position so that he can watch Sherlock's reactions as she leans forward another inch and slowly slides her tongue across Sherlock’s glans, her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. He groans and reaches down, brushing her cheek with shaking fingers and, she allows her eyes to drift shut and slides forward, taking him deep into the heat of her mouth and throat.

“ _Zahra_ ,” Sherlock’s vision swims as his entire world shrinks down to that burning hot wetness surrounding him. He hears John’s answering moan from behind him which causes her to groan around him, and he cries out sharply at the punishingly intense sensation _that_ causes, squeezing eyes shut and then burying his face in his hands. He holds still, thigh muscles jumping with the supreme effort of maintaining that stillness, intuiting that rutting into someone’s face is _not done_. Zahra presses her hand to his thigh, steadying him, and swirls her tongue around his glans before diving down the length of him.

“Fuck!” The word tears out of his throat as a sort of swallowed scream and he arches his back and pulls quickly away from her the few brain cells still firing informing him that he’s about to lose control, and that that wouldn't end well for anyone. He gasps raggedly, and clenches his hands not knowing exactly what to do now, his mind having by this point totally derailed.

John’s there behind him, hands sliding over his shoulders, gentle and strong and his vision stops swimming and he blinks rapidly. Zahra’s already on her knees, pressing against him, stroking fingers over his chest and hips and kissing light lines along his clavicle.

“Sherlock, love, you won’t hurt me, I’m a big girl.”

He relaxes further, sliding hands around her waist and rubbing small circles into the hollows of her hips with his thumbs. He leans back into John and sighs.

“You, Zahra,” he says, “are _far_ too good at that,” he murmurs into her hair. “I wasn't prepared.”

She hums and kisses his mouth and strokes fingers down his face and throat. “If you think _that’s_ good…” she drifts off, shifting her hips forward, and Sherlock moans as she rubs against his erection. None of the few previous sexual experiences in his life have prepared him for how incredibly intense every sensation has become now. He wonders if alcohol is the catalyst or whether the choice of partner really makes that significant of a difference and then wonders how on earth he could wonder that when John reaches around his hip and grasps his cock, stroking softly and so, so slow.

“Sherlock, final spot now. Now, or I swear, you will lose your bet and I won’t be the slightest bit sorry.”

“Our bet. It’s our bet, John.”

“Nope. I never bet. And at this point, I just want to fucking _fuck_.”

Sherlock reaches a hand behind him and cups John’s ass, pressing him close. “So be it, but I think of everyone here I’m the only one actually capable of pulling this one off,” he says, with no shortage of smug or sly as he realizes that as much as John thinks he wants to fuck now, he’s likely not prepared for how much he’ll want to fuck after. Or whom for that fact.

Zahra bites her lip and presses against him again.

“Get on with it then,” she growls, nipping his shoulder. “Because I’m rather starting to agree with John, and I can’t for the life of me imagine where is left.”

Sherlock chuckles, equilibrium restored, and extracts himself from between them.

He stretches his arms above his head and lets his head fall back, straining upwards until his vertebrae crack satisfyingly, then leans over, stretching forward and bracing his hands in front of him on the floor for purchase before rolling forward on his knees, arching his back sharply down, throwing his head back and clenching his ass. The resulting impossibly acute bow of his back ends in a deep divot just over his sacrum.

He hears John swear and trembles from the strain of holding the position as he feels liquid pooling before spilling down the sides of his hips. Johns hands must be shaking then, he thinks smugly.

“This one’s all you, John,” Zahra murmurs, breathless, sliding her hands over his straining shoulders and back.

Sherlock sighs, relishing the warmth that spreads over his skin as John leans over his body and shivers as he begins licking at the liquid. Sherlock can feel him shaking hard against him and suppresses the sudden urge to shove back against his body.

Just as his muscles begin to burn in earnest, John starts kissing his back, licking up the line of his spine and Sherlock moans as he relaxes his posture, grateful for the supporting arm John wraps around his waist.

“Seven of seven,” Sherlock murmurs, grinning up at Zahra who’s watching the impossible spectacle before her with eyes blown wide with desire. “What do I win?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, John, can I?” she whispers, her eyes wide, and Sherlock experiences a moment of complete disorientation at that question and all that it implies. He twists around in John’s arms to face him, hoping to observe something that will explain why this question now seems so right and appropriate. He watches the subtle flicker of internal conflict in John’s eyes and waits, striving for patience.

“If I or any man could give you what she can, I’d say no,” John says quietly, sliding a hand from Sherlock’s waist to his chest. Over his heart. “Because-- god, so help me, Sherlock, I want that-- I want you. For myself. From now on.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as relief floods through him and he sighs. “Yes, John.” He rumbles, covering John’s hand with his, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “ _Yes_.” He looks over his shoulder then, meeting Zahra’s wide, wide eyes. “Yes...please,” he whispers.

She stares at them for a moment.

“Are...are you sure?” she asks, though her body inclines toward them, a study in aching need.

“Oh, god, _yes_ ,” John says softly.

Sherlock twists in Johns arms again, pulling Zahra against him and framing her face with his hands, marveling at how he much of himself he sees reflected in her. They’re mirror opposites, dark against pale, male against female, but they are so much the same in _essence_.

When Sherlock presses his full lips against hers, he can’t help but feel a connection there singing sweetly between them. He wants to know her better, know her _more_ but there’s no time (‘ _passing through_ ’) for any kind of exploration save one. So he slides his hands across her skin, and through her hair and cups the perfect swell of her ass and echoes her moans and it’s good. Really, really good.

She licks into Sherlock's mouth and leans against him as John strokes his back and presses his body against him, and Sherlock hums deep and low as the sensations of loving wash over him from every direction.

He cradles Zahra against him and lowers them slowly down, bracing himself above her on his elbows and rubbing his body along hers in sinuous, slow thrusts. She tucks her legs up, sliding her knees alongside his hips and arches beneath him and he moans as she reaches between them and clasps fingers loosely around his aching cock. She doesn’t stroke but guides, gasping into his mouth as he cants his hips forward, pressing his tip against the slick hot folds of her skin.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes forward, and she arches under him, crying out softly as he breaches her. Sherlock tosses his head back, his mouth falling open as he sinks down, down, deeper until he’s fully seated, and she’s wrapped her long legs around his back and it’s almost perfect. He drops his forehead to her breast and rolls his hips, moaning long at the sweet, soft friction as she constricts tightly around him and it’s so close to being absolutely perfect…

“John, come here,” he gasps. Zahra’s eyes drift shut, and she moans as he nuzzles and kisses her throat and begins rolling his hips slowly and rhythmically. John kneels beside him and cups his jaw, staring into his eyes as he pumps his hips, and he feels drunk-- drunk on scotch and heat and John’s beautiful, beautiful eyes and more. His vision swims for a moment, but focuses as John cards fingers through his hair.

John’s stroking his cock almost absently with his other hand as he watches them and Sherlock suddenly knows exactly what would make this perfect. Bracing himself with one arm, he reaches for John and pulls him close. He has half a moment to lick his lips before he slides them slowly over John’s cock.

“ _Sherlock_ ,”  John moans, and his fingers tighten convulsively in Sherlock’s hair. The slight pain transmutes instantly into a shock of pleasure, and Sherlock thrusts deeply into Zahra, rocking her back, and she keens and presses herself up into him. John grunts hoarsely as Sherlock swirls his tongue around his shaft, licking and sucking its length deeper into his mouth.

Zahra raises herself up enough to nip at Sherlock’s pecs, kissing and biting a trial of heat across his chest before latching her lips over his nipple. He gasps around John’s cock and bucks forward hard and she clamps a hand around the back of his thigh, encouraging him, sucking hard on his nipple.

John’s cock slides from Sherlock's mouth as he cries out, rocking back on his heels and dragging his hands down Zahra’s body until they clasp tightly around her waist, pulling her with him.  

“Tell me,” asks, his voice low and tight with need that borders on desperation. “Tell me how, Zahra. Tell me what you want!”

“Harder,” she pants, flexing her thighs and tilting up into him. “Faster and ohmygod _harder_.” Sherlock lets his head fall back as he grips her waist and ruts into her, setting a fast, precise rhythm, fighting for control even as the sensations threaten to overwhelm him. She tightens her legs and braces her hands and pushes back into each thrust.

John’s next to him again, standing close and running fingers through his hair and he moans and slips his lips over John’s cock again, relishing his deep growling groan and thankful for the distraction from the heat and tension pooling in his belly and expanding through his body.

He works John’s cock as deep as he can down his throat then pulls back almost completely and teases the glans with his tongue before swooping forward again. The angle makes him clumsy, but this doesn’t seem to bother John who is grunting softly with every breath, and next time will be better.

_Next time._

Abruptly, John’s cock filling his mouth is no longer a distraction from the fire flaring burning away inside him but instead each shallow thrust, each moan and twitch stokes it hotter. Sherlock groans tightens his throat, around John's cock, pressing and curling his tongue against the puckered raphe and licking hard.

“Fuck, Sherlock!”  John shouts and fists his hand in Sherlock’s curls, unable to stop himself from thrusting into his mouth as his sudden orgasm feels like it’s torn from him. Sherlock shuts his eyes and concentrates on relaxing his throat and swallowing the salty bitterness that floods his mouth. He strokes John's hip,  unable to put voice to the incandescent pleasure with which this fills him, and that’s acceptable, because there will be a next time and he'll find the words.

“Don’t stop, Sherlock, don’t stop, please don’t stop…” Zahra whimpers from below him, her features beautifully reflecting intense pleasure. John moans low as he slides his cock from between Sherlock’s lips and sinks to his knees, and Sherlock transfers all his attention to the woman writhing gorgeously beneath him. He very accurately translates “don’t stop” into “faster” and resumes his previous tempo, sliding in and out of her slick, tight heat.

Sherlock knows he’s close, knows he must wait, but is suddenly unsure how long he can resist the hot, roiling pressure, taken aback by his sudden lack of control. A sharp, choked off shout escapes his lips and he clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut against the tide of sensation threatening to overwhelm him.

He hooks his arms under Zahra’s knees, lifting her bodily and yanking her up roughly into him as he thrusts, changing the angle of penetration and that does it for both of them. She grasps at his thighs, tightening impossibly around him and his back arches hard as he feels his cock pulse hot within her. He throws his head back baring his teeth, screaming a silent, tearing breath.

Zahra’s enraptured cries fade into the background as his pulse roars in his ears and hot waves of ecstasy smash through him over and over until he’s shaking and panting and weak, only peripherally aware that there are arms encircling his shoulders, that he’s murmuring, unsure of what he’s saying. He’s pulled down, down into warmth, onto softness and he rests, sighing as his eyes drifting shut, his mind quieting with his breathing.

~~~

“When did you know?”

Sherlock slowly surfaces to Zahra’s hushed, rich voice, recognizing flickering firelight through his eyelids without opening them. He’s warm and deliciously relaxed, delightfully aware of John’s body pressed against his back. Gentle fingers card through his hair, and he enjoys a rare moment of peace, sighing.

“I used to limp, before I met him,” John says, his words so low they’re mostly vibration through John's sternum. “After the war...for no reason. No physical reason anyway.” John pauses, and Sherlock carefully controls his breathing, feigning sleep through rapidly increasing awareness. “I was...a bit not good. Still am, sometimes. But within twenty-four hours of knowing him, I was running over rooftops. I guess I haven’t stopped since.”

“So, since the beginning.”

“Yeah, pretty much. I never… I never thought he’d ever feel the same way though. I mean… You don’t know him. He’s extraordinary. And I’m just...just.”

“I suspect you are not _just_ anything, John Watson. You two seem well matched,” Zahra says, and John sighs and shifts.

She’s touching him, stroking his arm or back, Sherlock thinks, suppressing a flare of ridiculous jealousy. There’s a period of silence, John’s breath puffing softly against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I can’t explain to you why this...it’s wonderful, but it won’t...You just sort of have to know him.”

“Five words. Describe him.”

“Brilliant.” John replies immediately, and Sherlock feels his heart contract painfully in his chest. He breathes through it.

“Correct. Almost always, about nearly everything.  Literally _ninety-five_ percent of the time.” John continues after some time, brooding.  Silence is broken only by the crackle of the fire… someone must have stoked it.

“Fucking goddamn _insufferable_.” John mutters suddenly. “Sorry, that shouldn't count against my limit. I mean honestly, in there? That’s our fourth kitchen table. In a year. The first he burnt, the second? Acid. The third he carved into...you know what? Never mind. Fucking insufferable. Trust me on this.”

There is silence for a while, punctuated by the soft crackle and occasional pop of the flame four feet away.

“Innocent,” John murmurs. “Not...not dead-bodies-and-murder innocent. Just...everything else.” He strokes Sherlock’s arm lightly. Sherlock wonders whether he would get goosebumps if he was sleeping. He assumes so since John doesn’t react.

“Mmmm. One left.”

Minutes pass and Sherlock wonders whether John has drifted off. His breath is steady enough...Sherlock uses the time to roll what John’s said around in his swimming, alcohol soaked brain. The only conclusion that keeps occurring to him is that he must be more careful of the kitchen table.  He hadn’t realized it was such an issue in the first bloody place. _Innocent_. If that's John's word for "stupidly careless" where Sherlock is concerned, he has much to be thankful for.

“Changeable.” John breathes out of nowhere. “Capricious. To the extreme. To the nth degree. Several orders of magnitude worse than the weather, his moods, his boredom, his. This...” John drifts off, sighing, deep and long.

The firelight through Sherlock’s eyes is hypnotic and he feels his head swim.

“A hard man to love,” Zahra murmurs sympathetically.

“No,” John replies quickly, tightening his fingers slightly where they rest on Sherlock’s bicep. “Easy, really, just.. not for…”

“Anyone else.”

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. He’s beautiful…”

“To be loved only for beauty is a terrible thing.” Zahra whispers, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes tighter, remember the word hiding in her skin under the fall of her hair.

“I have another word to add, I think.” she murmurs, and he feels her touch join John’s on his arm. _Damn_. “Awake.”

“What?” John blinks in confusion then sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Did I mention insufferable?” he grumbles, and Zahra chuckles behind him.

“The only insufferable thing will be your mood tomorrow if you sleep on this floor with your shoulder, John,” Sherlock snaps peevishly, annoyed at having his cover blown and upset that he’ll have to move from his position, which really is comfortable.

“We should go to bed. Zahra, you’ll stay till morning, yeah? I’ll make breakfast. That is, if we have anything in,” he says, poking Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock bats ineffectually at his hand before grasping it and hauling it over his shoulder to hold against his chest.

“I shouldn’t. I have to be up and out really early--”

“Then we shall all be up really early,” Sherlock says drowsily. “I never sleep more than a few hours at a time anyway and I can make breakfast if John’s too lazy.”

“You? The only thing you ever turn out of the kitchen is toxic waste. But the other part was right. Stay, Zahra,” John covers her hand where it rests on Sherlock arm, and she sighs happily.

“Mmm. Right. Okay. Where’s the loo?”

John points her in the right direction and props his head up on the hand not currently in Sherlock’s custody and stares at the dying embers in the hearth, desperately hoping there’s no metaphor there.

“Brave,” Sherlock says suddenly, flopping on his back and staring up at John through narrowed eyes.

“What?”

“Courageous,” Sherlock amends, a smile washing briefly over his lips, subsumed quickly by an intent frown. “Dangerous. Gentle. Dark,” Sherlock fires the words off in rapid succession, sure and steady. He reaches for John, cupping his hand around the nape of his neck and pulling him down until his breath sleeks hot and soft over his ear.  “Absolutely, totally _mine_ ,” he growls into his ear.

John groans and captures Sherlock’s lips, gripping his shoulder tightly enough to leave marks before rolling onto him. Sherlock immediately twines arms and legs around John’s body, pressing him closer.

“The only constant in life is change, John. And we are not immune,” Sherlock mutters into John’s hair as John presses his face against Sherlock’s neck. “You have quite rightly pegged my capricious nature and the fact that it will be reflected in the nature of our relationship.”

Sherlock tightens his arm around John’s shoulder as he makes to push away, holding him firmly.

“What you’ve idiotically overlooked, is that the nature of change is both additive and subtractive. For instance, I was not always enamored of deduction. That changed when life presented me with a puzzle. Can you imagine me without the Work now?” he asks.

Realizing after a moment that this is not a rhetorical question, John answers the obvious.

“Of course not. It’s as much a part of you as your ridiculous coat.”

Sherlock smiles in relief.

“Good. You understand.”

“Mmmm, nope. I don’t. Sherlock, what has that got to do with _us_?”

Sherlock’s smile becomes a grimace of exasperation and he rolls quickly onto his side, pinning John on his back with a frustrated huff of breath.

“Idiot,” he says fondly. “The Work came to me when _capricious_ chance presented me with a case and an outlet for my talents. It has only grown more important to me over the years,” he says, rolling his eyes at having to state the obvious before frowning down at John, working his mind around the next part of his proof, trying out different phrasings.

“Like the work... love came to me when chance brought us together,” he says quietly. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that this will conform to the same pattern, John? That you will only become more important to me as time passes. You are already so _necessary. How_ can you not realize that?”

John’s eyes burn treacherously and he’s too exhausted and overwhelmed to care that much.

“Sometimes we idiots need things spelled out, Sherlock,” he says as soon as he can trust his voice. Sherlock chuckles against him.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve had plenty of practice spelling out things for idiots. I trust I’ve made everything clear enough for your simple brain to comprehend?”

“Crystal clear,” John agrees with a smile, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled mass of curls, letting his eyes drift shut as Sherlock relaxes beside him. “We should go to bed,” he murmurs.

“My room,” Sherlock says rising gracefully to his feet.  “The bed’s bigger. The shower’s just shut off, why don’t you go first?” John nods, wondering how long it’ll take before Sherlock’s room becomes their room and realizing he very much wants at least a rinse before slipping between anyone’s sheets.

He hauls himself to his feet with Sherlock’s help and pulls an afghan around him, chuckling as he realizes Sherlock has eschewed any kind of covering, which is actually just absolutely perfect. Zahra’s standing in the hallway wrapped in a towel and Sherlock slips his arm around her guiding her into the bedroom while John ducks into the bathroom.

“God, I’m tired,” she sighs and sinks gratefully onto the bed.

Sherlock takes the towel from her and watches her settle between the sheets on her side at the far side of the bed.  He sits on the edge, reaching over and stroking her back slowly, smoothing damp hair away from her shoulders.

She stiffens as he runs his fingertips over the word scarred into her skin.

“I read Arabic,” he says softly, leaning over to plant a kiss on her shoulder. “I would kill them in a heartbeat.”  She turns toward him, reaching up to stroke his face and he frowns at the sadness he reads in her eyes.

“It was a long time ago, Sherlock. And you can’t kill the very, _very_ dead,” she says simply. Then she smiles, the clouds scattering magically. “But you’re sweet to offer. I’m sure you have often found suitable ends for many an evil man.”

Sherlock meets her smile with his own. “More my brother’s bailiwick, actually. Incidentally, if you ever need work, I can pass along your name.” 

She smiles again and stretches, nestling into the bed. “I may take you up on that,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. 

“You know how to reach us,” he murmurs, wondering at the lack of tedious "how'd you know what I do?" questions and watching her relax into sleep for a few minutes before rising and making his way to the bathroom.

He easily reads John’s deep exhaustion in the set of his shoulders and trades places with him in the shower with little more than a quick caress and fleeting kiss, though his dripping, flushed skin positively begs more. When Sherlock finally slips between the sheets himself, John’s already fast asleep, back to the door, wrapped limpet-like around Zahra’s body. Sherlock settles himself down under the duvet and turns towards them, pressing himself against John’s body, surprised at the speed with which his mind drifts towards sleep.

~~~

Based on the angle and quality of the light, he estimates the time at half past eight o’clock in the morning. He knows this just as he knows before he opens his eyes that Zahra has already left.

He also knows that John is sprawled over him, his head a comfortable, comforting weight in the hollow of Sherlock’s shoulder, their arms and legs forming a remarkably complex tangle.

Sherlock idly ponders how such a contorted position could be conducive to sleep and to what degree John’s shoulder will protest the inevitable compromises one makes when one shares a bed.

As his mind ticks over into full wakefulness, he attempts to calculate the prospective the validity of that concern, finding himself unsure as to whether this state of affairs will persist in the absence of a beautiful woman and a great deal of alcohol and finds insufficient data for even a hypothesis.  

John’s wishes and intentions had seemed fervent and heartfelt last night, and Sherlock had surely left no room for doubt about his feelings. Logically, there should be no question that things should continue to progress nicely. 

On the other hand, they had imbibed far more than normal, and Zahra had been, in her own exotic way, quite a catalyst. The question remains: will the reaction continue in the absence of that catalyst? Nonetheless, the cold fingers of doubt work their way through the contented warmth in his chest.

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at the familiar cicatrix of plaster cracks that scar his bedroom ceiling, his eyes walking the gyrations across the room as like a bizarre mandala, hoping that this activity will distract him from the growing compulsion to wake John and find out exactly which direction his life will take before breakfast.

His phone buzzes, rattling across the bedside table next to him. He frowns, gingerly extracting his hand and forearm from John’s sleeping grip snagging the phone, silencing it’s growl. It’s Lestrade, who probably wants to debrief them about the thief they caught for him. _Tedious_.

He checks for texts expecting to see one from an unrecognized number, but there is nothing from Zahra there. He frowns, finding it unlikely that she disappeared without leaving some kind of message and wondering why the idea that she might have bothers him so much. Certainly, she’s under no obligation to keep in contact and yet…

John shifts, sighing loudly and Sherlock feels a stab of adrenaline zip through him. He watches John’s face intently as he goes through the process of rising from deep sleep, parsing his reflexive expressions as he becomes aware of his position.

John slides a hand across Sherlock’s chest, and he tenses, his eyes flying open. Sherlock stays perfectly still, allowing John to orient himself before tentatively running long fingers over the hand on his chest. John huffs out a breath and flattens his hand over Sherlock’s heart, glancing around him, a frown twisting his mouth down.

“She’s gone,” John says flatly, expression redolent with regret. Sherlock closes his eyes against a blaze of searing disappointment as the bottom falls out of his rationalizations in the face of proof-- the catalyst gone, the reaction fizzles.

John’s fingers twine through his, his hand curling under Sherlock’s as he snuggles in closer, letting his eyes droop shut. Sherlock stops breathing altogether, awash in confusion.

“Still, it’s not all bad,” John murmurs drowsily, and his breath ghosts across Sherlock’s chest, leaving in its wake a trail of goosebumps. “At least now we can have a lie in. Sherlock?” John realizes abruptly that he’s been having a rather one sided conversation and glances up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares blankly at the ceiling, trying desperately to marshal a veritable conflagration of warring emotions.

John levers himself up on his elbow, putting some distance between them and regards Sherlock with an uncertain frown. “If..if you want to, that is. Lie in. You don't, you know, have to. I can leave.”

Heart hammering, Sherlock strives and fails to find his voice, to find words to explain that he’s had a heart attack of some type. He’s too slow. He knows he’s too slow.

“Sherlock, if this… There’s no... obligation, obviously if…” John gasps as Sherlock, grown frustrated with his own particular brand of inarticulate idiocy, launches himself away from the bed, knocking John backwards. He lands gracelessly on top of him, wrapping his arms around John's body, pulling them close and pressing his face against John’s neck. After a moment John’s hand stroke over his back, and he arches down, sighing, trying to touch John with as much of his body as possible. He feels John’s chuckle against him and hums.

“Tosser,” John says. “You had me worried there for a second.” Sherlock snorts and shifts his hips, pressing a thigh between John’s, bringing them even closer. They lay there for some time, and Sherlock is surprised to realize he’s about to nod off again when John’s stomach decides to make wishes that are entirely at odds with continued intimacy known in the loudest way it can.

Sherlock barks out a laugh, sliding his hand over the offending bit of anatomy only to hear his own body demand sustenance.

“Christ, even our metabolisms are complimentary,” John mutters, smiling.

Sherlock frowns. “I’m ravenous,” he rumbles, suddenly feeling lightheaded with hunger.

“We had better get you food before you eat me in lieu of toast,” John laughs.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “You and toast are not mutually exclusive.”

John smiles, letting his eyes drift shut and shoves his hips against Sherlock in a slow, languid roll, just as his stomach rumbles again. “It has been almost twenty-four hours since we last ate,” he grumbles, pushing Sherlock off him.

“Twenty-four hours for _you_ ,” Sherlock corrects him, rising to his feet with the sheet wrapped around him. “I’ve not eaten in well over thirty-six.”

“And whose fault is that you insane man? Toss me your robe.”

“Shant,” Sherlock eyes John’s naked body lasciviously. “I prefer my doctors naked.”

“Recent sexual predilections aside, Sherlock, hot bacon fat splattering on one’s skin does nothing to encourage the libido.”

“Well if you’re going to make a mess, get your own dressing gown,” Sherlock grouses, but tosses the blue one over to John anyway. It already has an acid burn through the cuff after all. He wanders out into the kitchen and stops short.

There are three cups of tea on the table and behind them, pinned to the wood by two full inches of Zahra’s seven inch long knife, is a note. With a swift yank, Sherlock pulls the knife, not disturbing the long-cold tea.

 _To remember me by. Love, Zahra_ , followed by a phone number. He hands John the note over his shoulder as he shuffles into the kitchen.

“More reason not to destroy this table, Sherlock,” John murmurs fondly, flicking his gaze between note, knife and notch.

Sherlock snorts, smiles and folds himself into a seat, pulling cold tea to him and taking a long, long drink. “Make breakfast, John,” he says when his stomach rumbles yet again.

John laughs, opens the crisper and begins to do just that.

 


End file.
